


Psychoanalysis For Everyone!

by nogoaway



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: AU, F/M, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-16 04:43:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2256285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nogoaway/pseuds/nogoaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twice-weekly therapy is an essential part of re-adjustment to civilian life, but the UNSC's mental health department is short-staffed and somewhat... unconventional when it comes to treating Special Forces. Dr. Grey POV. Everyone goes home after Epsilon. Please suspend your disbelief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> I am finishing up the end of '5 Ways' I promise. Here's the start of something less terrible for everyone. (Well, maybe. Dr. Grey is in it. Adjust your barometer for terrible accordingly.)

Emily is taking notes on the behavior of the _Forficula auricularia_ population in her apartment (the effect of constant artificial light on their nocturnal habits is _fascinating_ ) when her personal phone rings. She doesn't hear it.  
  
"Come here, little earwig~" she sings to her current specimen. It scrambles into a nook between the cabinet and the wall. "Oh, I just want to know if you're a juvenile! It won't even hurt. How many times have you molted? You can tell me, I'm a doctor."  
  
The earwig doesn't come out. Emily goes looking in the junk drawer for a flashlight, but when she opens it the bottom falls out and batteries and keyfobs go spilling everywhere.  
  
Emily chases a AAA under the kitchen table. It's really very dirty under there. Unsanitary. She ought to clean. You never know when you might need a stage for an impromptu dissection!  
  
The call goes to voicemail. She doesn't notice that, either, until Tuesday morning. She's busy; that dissection came up after all.  
  
"Oh," Emily says into the phone, as the message ends "This sounds interesting."  
  
She puts down her scalpel and the pigeon with the crest mutation she found on her way home from class lives to limp another day.  
  
This sounds _so_ very interesting.

* * *

  
  
"So you see why we're reluctant to use someone in-house," the woman says. She has what appears to be a fatty deposit in the sclera of her left eye. Emily gets up on her tip-toes, trying to see better from across the desk. Yep, definitely a pinguecula. Emily sits back down in her chair.  
  
"Are you Ashkenazi?" She asks.  
  
The woman stares at her. " _Excuse_ me?"  
  
"Are you of Ashkenazi descent?" Emily repeats "And do your knees hurt? Any bone abnormalities?"  
  
"How is that relevant?"  
  
"You could have Gaucher's," Emily informs her, excitedly "Don't worry, it's probably Type I, your life expectancy isn't reduced that much at all." She pauses "Unless you're Swedish. Then it's Type III and you should probably get your affairs in order. That's _much_ rarer, though."  
  
"I'm not Swedish," the woman says "And my knees don't hurt. Can we get back to the task at hand, Ms. Grey?"  
  
"Dr. Grey," Emily corrects her "Not everyone displays every symptom. Bone deformities? You might not have noticed, they commonly appear in the femur-"  
  
"Your advisor told us you were still a graduate student."  
  
"Well, yes," says Emily "In Psychology. I'm a Doctor in regular medicine. And Geophysics. But that one probably won't help with your problem."  
  
"Can you tell me what my problem _is_ , _Dr_. Grey?"  
  
Oh, the 'I'm testing to see if you've been paying attention' voice. Teachers _love_ that one. "Aside from your undiagnosed congenital illness?"  
  
"Yes, aside from that."  
  
"Super secret military project needs someone to do relational therapy with their neurally compromised super soldier test subjects who won't talk to media or politicians or police and isn't bound by silly things like APA guidelines or professional ethics," Emily says, happily "Oh, when can I start? Tell me more about the 'neurally compromised' part. Are we talking _Machurian Candidate_ , or _Neuromancer_?"  
  
"Just so we're clear," the woman says, passing a tablet and a stylus across the desk "The position is unpaid. Whatever credit you recieve will need to be negotiated through your University. You will have the opportunity to take notes and conduct whatever research you feel is appropriate- in fact, we encourage it- but there can be no publication of material even _tangentially_ related to this project until such time as the government's own files are declassified."  
  
"It's fine," Emily chirps, and grabs for the tablet.  
  
The woman doesn't let go. "It may be as many as twenty years, or fifty. Even then, we reserve the right to redact any material we see fit. It may never see the light of day. And we _will_ be watching, Ms. Grey."  
  
"Dr. Grey. And I will be _extremely_ cooperative, I promise." Emily pulls the tablet free and signs with a flourish, dotting her "i" with a little heart.  
  
Then she adds a little smiley face, just to emphasize how cooperative she's going to be and how excited she is.  
  
 _So_ excited.  
  
Oh my _goodness_.  
  



	2. Monday

On Monday morning, Emily stumbles into the office ( _not_ late, thank you very much) to find Agent Maine and his handler sitting in her waiting room. Well, 'sitting' isn't quite the right word for what Agent Maine is doing in the armless upholstered chair. You wouldn't say that an iceberg sits, or a mountain, or an aircraft carrier. It's better to say that Agent Maine, like a geological formation or a skyscraper, is located in her waiting room- which is all very well and good, but he's not supposed to be located there until Wednesday afternoon, and Emily doesn't think there's enough jelly beans in her candy bowl to sustain this behemoth for the next two days.

"Agent Maine!" she says, as brightly and as non-confrontationally as possible "I didn't expect to see you today!" She turns to the other man, a short and unhappy looking fellow who has been watching her carefully since she turned the corner "You must be his helper. I think there's been a little mix-up. I'm supposed to be meeting-" she tuns on her datapad and flips to her day planner. Right. "Agent Washington this morning."

Agent Maine's massive head turns towards his companion. He grunts.

"I'm Washington," says the man in the other chair "and I'm not his 'helper'." Emily blinks at him for a moment, and then taps on her screen and pages through the file they've given her for today, the one labeled "WA: ε". The man in the chair doesn't look much like the grainy photo attached to the profile of "David L. B[redacted], Special Agent. David L. B., Special Agent, is actually kind of cute, a friendly-looking young man with floppy brown hair and light freckles, smooth-faced and smiling.

This guy looks like he has twenty years on David L. B., Special Agent, and not good years, either. His hair is poorly bleached and cropped short, with gray coming in around his ears, and his eyes are hard and sunken in. There's no softness in that face, just a tight mouth, unhappily creased brow, sharp cheekbones and a smattering of faint scars. He does have freckles, though.

"Iiii'm going to need to see some I.D.," Emily chirps, and when the man stands up to reach for his wallet she realizes he's actually quite tall and broad- he just looked diminutive, next to Agent Maine, the way the silhouette of an 'average human' looks tiny next to a scale illustration of a brontosaurus.

The card he passes her has a little photograph of his unsmiling face in the upper lefthand corner and a UNSC logo. It reads 'David L. Barrington, Priority Clearance Class 4A.'

"Oh," says Emily "alright, then. Right this way, please."

She unlocks her office and steps in, holding the door open expectantly. There's a creaking sound from the chair as Agent Maine stands up and looms in her direction.

"I'm sorry," says Emily, wondering whether someone messed up Agent Maine's dossier and forgot to include the tiny fact that he's _deaf_ as well as mute "I'm going to have to ask you to wait there. Agent Washington's session is confidential."

"He can stay," says Agent Washington. Emily notes that he hasn't made any move towards the office.

"Actually, he can't," Emily says, trying to sound firm but apologetic "you need to be able to talk openly with me. Please, come in."

"No," says Agent Washington.

Emily smiles her very best 'I must have just misheard you' smile. "Excuse me?"

"I said, 'no'," Agent Washington repeats.

"Mr. Barrington," she begins, but he cuts her off.

"Either he comes in, or I go home."

"Oh," says Emily "I think there's been a misunderstanding. I'm afraid your meeting with me is mandatory."

Agent Washington just stares at her with those dead eyes.

"As in not optional," she tries again "If you're worried about leaving him alone, I can have the liason office send someone up to keep an eye on him. They'll make sure he's well taken care of."

"I know what mandatory means," he says "and I told you, I'm not his _minder_."

"So... come on in!" Emily indicates her office with a flourish "now, please. It's already five minutes into our hour."

Agent Washington still doesn't move. Emily waves her hand again, trying to communicate how nice the office is, tada, please don't make me call your superiors.

Agent Maine angles his head a bit to look past her and the door, and then he turns back around towards Agent Washington and makes a few rapid signs with his hands. Emily's proficient in ASL, but whatever Agent Maine is using, she's never seen it before- unless he really is saying "work hamburger stop rude", in which case they're going to have way bigger problems than the language barrier.

"I don't care," says Agent Washington. Agent Maine thumps his fist into one open palm, and tucks his thumb between his middle and ring finger. "I'd like to see them try."

"Oh, _fine_ ," says Emily, because they're now eight minutes into her first session with one of these Marines and all she's managed to do is ensure that her patient doesn't want to cooperate "just come in. Both of you."

Agent Washington nods sharply at her, and then Emily has to step back into the room because Agent Maine has decided to _locate_ himself in the door frame. He sits down without hesitation on one end of the sofa.

Emily looks over expectantly at Agent Washington. He still hasn't moved.

"You go," he says, and Emily frowns at him. He makes an impatient noise. "Just go, I'm completely capable of closing the door behind me."

Emily shrugs, and steps into the office, settling into her usual chair and watching with sudden interest as Agent Washington finally enters the room, pulling the door closed after him.

He doesn't let go of the knob right away, and those flat-looking eyes dart straight to the two windows at the far wall. She had expected him to sit with Agent Maine on the couch, but instead he heads straight for the extra chair next to the bookshelves and drags it loudly into the corner. Then he sits down, back flush against the wall, and stares at her from across the room.

"Oooookay," says Emily "that's kind of far away. Do you mind if I come a little closer?"

Agent Washington just shrugs at her, so Emily drags her own chair a few yards towards him and then settles back in.

"Great," she says, trying to ignore the looming presence of Agent Maine located heavily behind her on the sofa "So. I'm Dr. Grey. It's nice to meet you."

Agent Washington stares dully past her. Emily turns to see if Agent Maine is signing at him, but the massive man is just sitting there with a datapad, reading silently and paying absolutely zero attention to them.

"Do you know why the program asked me to meet with you, David?" Emily tries a new tack, the one she's seen her developmental psych professor use with recalcitrant teenagers "do you mind if I call you David?"

"Yes," says Agent Washington "I know, and yes, I mind."

Emily smiles. Got him. "Okay, Mr. Barrington-"

"Wash," he says.

"Okay, Wash. Why did they ask me to meet with you?"

He shrugs. "Standard operating procedure when your tour ends. Let's just get it over with."

Emily leans back into her chair and picks up her datapad "So you don't anticipate getting anything out of this?"

Wash frowns. "No, I don't. Are you taking notes?"

"Does it bother you that I take notes?"

Wash shrugs.

"It looks like it bothers you. Why do you think that is?"

"Jesus Christ," he says, and moves to get up.

"Alright," Emily says, very cheerily and loudly "new topic!" New approach.

Wash sinks reluctantly back into the chair. "How was your trip home?" Emily very deliberately sets the datapad down on her lap. She has an eidetic memory anyway, it's not like she _needs_ to take notes.

"How is that relevant?" Wash eyes her with the tired suspicion she's beginning to realize is just what his face looks like at rest. There's dark circles under his eyes and his mouth has a permanent tightness at the corners, somewhere between a frown and a grimace.

"Just making small talk," Emily rests her hands on the arms of her chair, trying to find a balance between open, welcoming body language and the guise of authority she's feeling slip away minute by minute "Space travel can be tiring. Then again, life can be tiring in general."

The smile freezes on her face, and over the next long three minutes of silence, she feels it grow brittle and crack.

"I can wait you out, you know," she says, casually, and Wash's hand jerks on his thigh at the sudden noise "I don't have _anywhere_ to be today."

"It's a forty-five minute session," Wash scowls, and looks like he's been counting every minute "I've sat through electroshock that lasted longer than that."

Well, _that's_ interesting. Emily doesn't bite right away, though.

"We have certain criteria we need to fulfill," she smiles "this isn't a private healthcare provider. Given your unique situation, I've been asked to provide your superiors with at least a rough diagnosis after the first session, so we can plan your treatment accordingly."

"A diagnosis."

"Yes. I was thinking Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder might be a good place to start."

Wash barks out a laugh, and Emily hears Agent Maine shift on the sofa behind her. "I don't have PTSD. Shouldn't you be asking me about my mother, or something?"

"Okay," Emily agrees cheerily, and adds another mental hatch-mark in the _wow does this guy embody every diagnostic critera_ column, under the _avoidance_ constellation "how do you feel about your mother?"

"She's dead," Wash informs her, "but she was very nurturing. The picture of mental health."

"Oh," says Emily, "I'm sorry to hear that." Think of all the Oedipal-abandonment intersections she's missing out on!

Wash seems to think she was only referring to the _first_ part of that sentence, because he only shrugs. "Diabetes. The colony I grew up on had poor healthcare. Very sad. Are we done here?"

"I can't diagnose you with 'dead mother."

"Well, you'd better think of something, because there's nothing wrong with me," Wash says, and Emily nods.

"Absolutely," she says, and clicks over to her music folder on the datapad.

She queues the volume up to max, waits a few seconds, and then hits 'Play' on Prokofiev's 'Dance of the Knights'.

The brass section swells, and Wash jumps up so fast the chair turns over and clatters to the floor.

A fraction of a second later, a shadow passes overhead and there's a hand the size of a Christmas ham reaching down over Emily's shoulder and plucking up the datapad. The orchestra cuts off.

They stay like that for a moment, like some absurdist Mexican standoff, until Wash very carefully leans down to set the chair right again, eyes locked on Emily. This man has killed people; Emily can tell. She's not afraid of him, even though she probably should be.

The datapad is placed, very gently, back in Emily's lap, and the shadow vanishes.

Footsteps to her left, and she watches as Agent Maine approaches Wash from the front, arms loose at his sides and palms turned slightly open. Wash doesn't look away from Emily, but he lists towards Maine a little, and his fists unclench.

Interesting. Looks like she was right about there being a handler, after all.

Maine signs something with his hand at his side, and Wash's eyes flicker down. He frowns.

"Damn right it was unnecessary- what?"

Maine shakes his massive head, repeats the last gesture.

"Oh, come on. Don't tell me you _agree_ with her-" Wash's voice changes when he talks to Maine- gains pitch and affect, even if it is just annoyance "Because I _don't_ , that's why, and even if I did, they aren't _my_ \- don't give me that. You know why."

Then, softer, after a pause and a flurry of hands "Asshole. Fine."

Wash raises his head, looks straight at her. "I was implanted with a systematically traumatized AI fragment that committed suicide while inside of my head. There. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," Emily gasps, and only just resists the urge to squeal in excitement because, oh, this is _beyond her wildest dreams_ "Tell me more. What do you mean by fragment? Was it attached to your nervous system at the time? Did you undergo a corresponding death experience? You can tell me, I won't think you're crazy, ego death is a real phenomenon, you know-"

Agent Maine makes a low growling noise. He signs at Emily, some long sentence that ends with a thumb jerking towards Wash.

Wash sighs. "I have flashbacks. And trouble sleeping. And, uh," he glances back at Maine, who makes a fist and extends his ring finger "I don't know what that is."

Maine rumbles, and slides his own datapad out of his pants pocket, scrawls on the touchpad with his index finger before presenting it to Emily.

'intermittent dissociative amnesia', it reads, in very neat handwriting, considering.

"Oooh," says Emily, " _someone's_ been doing their research."

Agent Maine looks unimpressed.

"That's forty-five minutes," Wash says, at the exact moment the clock on Maine's datapad turns over "can we go?"

"Iiii'd like to see you again this week, if that's possible," Emily's already running through her mental registry of diagnostic batteries and experimental treatments. She'll need to do research.

"It's not-," Wash says, and then heaves a sigh laden with the weight of centuries when Maine elbows him "fine. Wednesday? I'll be here with him, anyway, at two. I can meet after."

"Very nice," Emily says, distractedly, punching in her student access code to the _Journal of Neurological Augmentation_ "goodbye, now!"

She thinks she hears the door close.


End file.
